Counting Beads
by Zevazo
Summary: Follows over twenty years of Remus's life as he discovers lycanthropy, friendship, sex, love, betrayal, hope and despair. First person vignettes run from MWPP era to post PoA. Visits the bite, school years, the first Order of the Phoenix, and Greyback.
1. Introduction: 1994

**Disclaimer - **I make no money, I own nothing that you recognize, the usual rigamarole.

**Author's Note **- This story will attempt to follow Remus's life from age five (the year he is bitten) to age 33 (the summer after he leaves his teaching position). Please notify me if you see any mathematical errors - I've tried to work it all out, and checked my work as well as I can,but math doesn't really make sense to my poor little brain. There will be several chapters. Chapter one is a brief introduction, set in the summer of 1994 (we assume that PoA begins in '93). Chapter two follows the years 1964-70. Chapter three focuses on Remus's school years, 1971-77. Chapter four is not yet written but will encompass the years from graduation to James and Lily's deaths; chapter five will introduce us to the next ten years, during which Remus is introduced to Fenrir Greyback and the werewolf packs of the United Kingdom. That's the prognosis at the moment, anyway. Chapter two will be up in about ten minutes, chapter three next week. The rest should follow in pretty quick order. If you've stuck with me so far, you're up for sainthood and I owe you a hug. Please enjoy.

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Counting Beads**

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Chapter One: An Introduction

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I'm never going to come back to this support group, never again, even though I helped found it. It was ridiculous of me to expect to find comfort here. There are eighteen people seated in the circle of folding chairs. A small child plays on the floor, oblivious to the pain around her. Among these are one man partially blinded by a mummy's curse, two women who lost their family to the madness of the Cruciatus, one recently bitten werewolf, one me. I was instrumental in bringing these people here, posting carefully, discreetly worded fliers in cafes and bookshops, then applying the Muggle-repelling charms to make sure we had the sort of curses we knew how to work with. I won't come back. I've been living with this so long that discussing it only makes it worse. These good people with their problems would draw back from someone who confesses to having been a werewolf since the age of five, having nearly murdered a Hogwarts student or four, hidden my condition, lived with this for twenty-eight years. People are repelled by lonely people, afraid that they will be depended upon. No one quite feels up to that. 

Introductions. Noises of sympathy. The question: "Tell us your name, age, problem, and a little about your life." My turn comes soon.

Oh, how much I could tell them, what understanding I could offer. Especially to the new werewolf; him I could help. Thirty-three years of life, and I could give them all some understanding. I'm watching the reactions, though, and I know they will not accept it.

But even if I wanted or needed to tell them about my life, how could I express it? "A little about your life" is a mockery. How to separate out what to tell? Impossible. Impossible to say it and tell the truth.

TBC


	2. Wolf Child: 1964 through 1970

Disclaimer - the other Lupins and their neighbors are mine, this little Welsh town does not actually exist, and everything else is JK Rowling's. Bet you didn't know that.

Paragraph breaks indicate a new event; line breaks indicate a new year.

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Chapter Two: 1964 through 1970

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1964. I know the year because Ambrose helped me reckon it up yesterday while he was drawing me. I also know that I am five, and that I live in Wales and that Wales is part of the United Kingdom and the United Kingdom is part of Europe. Ambrose is my brother. He is fifteen and he is an artist. It is summer because in the other seasons, Ambrose goes to school. The name of the school makes me laugh: Hogwarts. The closest neighbor, Mr Whittaker, has a hog. I asked him if it had warts but he said he didn't think so. I am in the backyard. The moon is behind the fence and it looks very big. I am digging. Ambrose said I could plant some vegetables next to Mum and Dad's. Ambrose is watching me from the kitchen window. I wave to him. I hear a dog howling. It must be Mrs Whittaker's dog, even though I usually can't hear him, because the Whittakers live over the hill. But then a dog jumps over the fence and it is much to big to be Mrs Whittaker's dog. It snarls. Dad told me that when a dog makes that noise, I should back away slowly and not be afraid. So I back away toward the kitchen door, calling to Ambrose with my voice as low as I can make it. But then, the dog jumps at me, and its teeth are in me, and I scream because it hurts worse than anything I have ever felt before. Dad said dogs wouldn't bite me if I backed away and didn't run and wasn't afraid and spoke in a low voice, and I did all those things, but it bit me anyway. The door bangs and Ambrose is on the back porch with his wand. I call, "That's not allowed, Ambrose," because I know he can get thrown out of school if he uses magic in the summer. The dog is crouching over me. Its teeth look yellow in the white moonlight. I can hear it panting. It is licking at the blood from my shoulder. Then it jumps right over me, its claws scratching my ribs, and it bites Ambrose. Ambrose screams as its teeth sink in and I can hear the teeth tearing his skin. Suddenly I know that it's not a dog. I have a picture of what it is in one of my books. It is a wolf. Ambrose shouts words I don't know and three lines of yellow light hit the wolf. It snarls and backs away, then turns and runs. Ambrose runs and takes me in his arms and I can smell that we're both bleeding. Ambrose is crying and so I hug him and tell him that it will be okay.

Neighbors are coming in and out. I watch them from the living-room sofa. My arm and side ache from the wolf's teeth. The visitors keep murmuring things. My dad is talking back to them, saying things like "Yes, they should be all right," and, "Thank you, it'll certainly be an improvement over the food at the hospital, let me tell you," and, "It was dreadful, Remus nearly died, but the doctors say they'll be fine." I think maybe I won't be fine, because Ambrose is really unhappy and I saw him cry again yesterday. Ambrose is upstairs pretending to be asleep, but the neighbors want to see me because I am on the sofa under my mum's yellow afghan, so they know I'm awake. One of them says, "But what's wrong with his eyes? Didn't they used to be blue?" and Dad says, "Yes, they were blue when he was born." I thought my eyes were still blue. When the neighbors leave I ask for a mirror to check. My eyes are green. Green is made of blue and yellow, I tell Dad, because Ambrose showed me how to mix his paints so I know that. Dad covers his face and says "Yes, it is," in a funny sort of voice. Later I hear Mum screaming at Dad. They say my name.

I lie on my bed and shiver. Ambrose comes in. He is limping. I keep shivering. Ambrose lays down next to me and hugs me. He tells me that I was very brave. I don't see why because I don't remember doing anything brave. He says he knows it hurts, but it won't happen again until next month and he says again that I was very brave. I ask why he's been so sad. He says, "Because I can't go back to school any more, and I liked it there, because my teachers let me illustrate my essays." He laughs. I laugh too, but I'm not sure why it's so funny. Then I ask what hurt so bad. Ambrose says it's because we're werewolves now. He says we'll turn into werewolves every full moon. He opens the curtains and shows me the moon over the hill. I can still see it even though the sun is up. The edge of it is touching the hill. Ambrose tells me that when the moon is round that way, it's called a full moon and we'll turn into wolves like the one that bit us last month. "Will we bite people?" I ask. "I don't want to." He kisses my hair and tells me that we'll always be very, very careful never to bite anyone. He also says I can't tell anyone. I tell him I think it's like being a wizard, we can't tell Muggles, except for Muggles like Mum because she's a special one. Ambrose says it's like that, but we can't even tell wizards that we're werewolves because they would be afraid. I can see why they'd be afraid. The wolf that bit me scared me. I tell Ambrose this and he tucks me in and tells me to sleep.

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March, 1965. A man is at our kitchen table talking to Ambrose. Some of Ambrose's drawings and paintings are on the table. I stop in the doorway. The man looks at me. "Is this your model?" he asks, pointing to me then to one of the drawings. "Yes, it's my little brother," says Ambrose, then tells me to come on in. I come and sit in my chair. The man is big and has a beard. He talks a lot. He says that Ambrose is a child prodigy and I ask what that means. Ambrose tells me to hush, he'll tell me later. "You're really only sixteen?" the man asks, shaking his head. Ambrose says yes. The man says he'll represent Ambrose to dealers. He takes some of the pictures in his case when he leaves. Ambrose explains that the man is an agent, and is going to talk to people about selling his pictures. Ambrose has been painting a lot since he doesn't go to school any more. I tell him I don't want him to sell his paintings, because I like them. He says he'll mostly sell prints and copies, and keep the ones he's painted. I ask him when he's going to paint my wall like he said. "Today," he tells me. "Let's eat some waffles first. Then we'll go paint it."

24 September. I'm six years old today. I go down to the kitchen and Ambrose is there, with Dad. "I never thought that would be the first one to sell," says Ambrose. He is smiling and holding a piece of paper. "And Mr Hapscombe said he's in the process with an enormous greeting card company." He sees me and says, "Happy birthday, Remus." Then he tells me to get dressed, because we're going to Floo to London to buy me a present. Then Mum comes to the door and says no. She tells Ambrose to put the money into a savings. Ambrose looks at her for a long time. Then he says, "It's my money, Mum, and I think Remus ought to have a birthday present. Don't you?" She says something down low and Ambrose says louder, "No one's making you come along, are they?" He tells me again to go get dressed. I go upstairs and put on my favorite clothes. Mum doesn't come to London, but Dad and Ambrose buy me a green Puffskein and a brown jacket.

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1966. Mum and Dad have been yelling a lot lately. Ambrose says I shouldn't listen to them when they do that. Today, I'm taking my shoes off on the back porch when I hear Mum start screaming. She calls Dad a lazy bastard. I'm not allowed to say that. I never know what Dad says back to her because Dad never yells. Mum keeps yelling. I sit on the porch and take my Puffskein out of my pocket. His name is Fred, because Ambrose wanted to call him that. Then a door bangs shut and Ambrose starts yelling too. He's even louder than Mum. "I know you hate it, it's not perfect like you thought, so magic can't fix everything, can it? If you can't handle it just leave!" he shouts. Mum doesn't come to dinner and I don't see her the next day or the next.

It's winter. It's almost Christmastime. Ambrose is talking to the agent, Mr Hapscombe. We're in a long room with Ambrose's paintings on the walls. I think it's in London. Ambrose tells Mr Hapscombe, "Honestly, it's amazing that you could get me a showing so fast. And this close to Christmas, too. If a cab hits you tomorrow you'll go straight to heaven and you won't even have to stop at the gates for check-in." Mr Hapscombe laughs loudly. Ambrose calls me over and straightens my jacket. He tells me again to behave. "Are we in London?" I ask him. "Yes, we are," says Ambrose. He looks nervous. Two people come in the glass door. I tell Ambrose that we should have a glass door in our house. He says it would be too expensive. A lot of things are too expensive, I think.

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1967. October. A wolf should have a pack. Even as a wolf I know a few words and a word I know is pack. I raise my head to howl at the moon through the window. My room is full of spells so I can't break the door or the window. The bed is stripped. There is blood on the mattress and I can smell the blood and even though it is my own blood it makes me want more and my teeth wish for something to tear and so I sink my fangs into my foreleg and lift my head to tear it. Next door is my brother but I do not know the word brother but I know _Ambrose_ so I lift my head and yip for him high-pitched and angry. I do not hear him answer and I know it is because of the spell on the wall. I leap to the bed and let my paws rest on the window and howl long and loud. When I get down my big paws are smeared on the window so that there are bloody pawprints on the moon.

November. I am tired and lost in the moonlight. My dark silver fur is washed in it. I bleed slowly and the blood turns to bluesilver. I howl long and lonely and sit up painfully to look out the window at the sheep in the field. Just one. Just one and for a while I would not be hungry. I picture sheep-blood and tufts of stained wool streaked on the floor of the cage instead of my own blood and hair. I am a wolf and a werewolf and I do not know the word _sheep_ but I know the word _prey_ and I do not know _lonely_ or _alone_ but I know how to _howl_ so I do that again.

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July, 1968. Ambrose and I are in France with Mum. Ambrose says I should pretend to like it, but I honestly don't. People say my name oddly and Mum drags us to specialists to poke and probe and make suggestions Ambrose calls "hogwash." That reminds me of the school, so I ask Ambrose, "Would you still be going to school if we hadn't been bitten?" He says no, he would have just finished his last year. The man we're seeing now has a waiting room with an enormous mirror and a lot of leather books. I've already read the titles while Mum talks to the doctor. There's a print on the waiting-room wall that I recognize as one of Ambrose's. Ambrose pokes me lightly. "Don't tell anyone I painted that, okay?" he says. "Why?" I ask. Ambrose grimaces and starts to tell me, but he's cut off by the sound of Mum saying, "I couldn't help but notice the painting in your foyer, you know, my older son actually painted that? What a coincidence." Ambrose sighs.

Our next specialist is in Spain. I have no idea what is going on. I'm sitting on an oak table in my shorts, which is actually a relief, because it's an awful, sticky day. I think I liked France better. I'm half French myself – Mum is half French and half Scandinavian, Dad is half French and half Welsh (of course) – so I've learned to speak it. The specialist is preparing something with his back turned, talking in Spanish. Mum can't possibly be following all this. Apparently, the doctor asks her name, because she says, "Margaret Sanxay." I mutter, "Margaret Lupin." It's the first I've realized that she's changed her name.

"Tell you what, Mum," Ambrose says later that evening, back in our French hotel where I understand people. "We haven't seen you in months. Why don't we spend some time with you, instead of with quacks who think they can cure something incurable?" Mum says coldly, "Excuse me for hoping," and leaves the room.

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1969. I love Edgar Allan Poe. He's so wordy and yet he means all the ornamentation. "The Cask of Amontillado." "The Raven." And that odd poem about his military school, "Romance." I hate Dickens. He's wordy in the wrong ways. Hemingway is a bit of all right, if he'd just quit with the fish. Victor Hugo is God's best friend, because he created Jean Valjean and whatsisname Javert. Agatha Christie is a nice, comforting writer. Everything ticks away neatly in her books. All it takes is the little grey cells. Tolkien is another of God's best friends, except for a while in the middle of _The Return of the King _and when Tom Bombadil, Lord of Foresty Pointlessness, turns up. Other than that, though, he's good. I liked Alexandre Dumas when I read _The Count of Monte Cristo_, but felt betrayed by _The Three Musketeers_. Lewis Carroll is pleasantly insane. The Bronte sisters are admirable, but _Wuthering Heights _was much better than _Jane Eyre_. Jane Austen makes me vomit. Ambrose says nine is too young to have these sorts of literary tastes. Dad says nine is too young to know words like "ornamentation" and to feel betrayed by a book.

I've decided to become a writer. I'm not going to get to go to school next year, so I need to become something artistic. Most places won't hire you without a Hogwarts diploma, I guess. I'll never paint as well as Ambrose can and I wouldn't want to imitate him. Considering what I do to my hands every month, I'll never make it as anything that requires delicate hand movement, like violin playing. I'm going to learn to type so it'll be easier. Ambrose and Dad both agree that ten is too young to have definite career goals.

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September 13, 1970. I walk into my kitchen to get a bit of lunch and there I see an old man with long silver hair and beard. Since I'm trying to learn to describe people, I immediately start mentally writing a paragraph about him. His robes are slate-blue, the real old-fashioned robes that bring to mind Merlin and graduation gowns, not the modern ones that go on over a pair of trousers. He has long silver hair and a longer silver beard, and blue eyes behind spectacles the shape of the waxing half-moon. He's a thin, athletic old gentleman who's got to be a hundred years old or so. "Remus Lupin?" he says, and rises to shake my hand. He's very tall. I shake back, nervously, wondering if he's from the Ministry and I'm about to be put down as a menace to society. Instead, he says, "My name is Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts. I was disappointed to find you wouldn't be joining us this year, but my Herbology professor has dreamed up a rather brilliant plan to see that you can come to school next year, if you wish. I would, of course, invite you to come this year, but the plan involves a newly hybridized tree which will have to be planted from a sapling. You'll be a year older than your schoolmates, but I wrote to your brother, and he said he thought you'd be interested in giving it a try."

Diagon Alley has never looked so fresh, so real. People look cheerful. For once, it isn't crowded, but it's full of life. Dumbledore gave us a note to get twenty Galleons out of the bank – he said it was a scholarship, and Ambrose was to buy me books to keep me occupied for the year. He also gave us another note, handwritten, which Ambrose has in his pocket. The bookstore, Flourish and Blotts, smells like heaven. For the first time since I can remember, I can pick out almost any book on the shelves. I'm careful, though. I pick one about the history of potions, a thin one about recently developed plants (my Whomping Willow, my new favorite plant, is in there), and one about rare forms of Transfiguration. Those are the subjects that sound as though they might be hard. Then I go over to historical fiction. I pick interesting ones that are also long, because they'll have to last me a while. I'm running out of things to borrow from the neighbors. We go a Galleon over the twenty. Ambrose helps me carry the bags. I've never been so happy in my life. I have new books of my very own and I'm _going to Hogwarts_.

Mr Ollivander is a rather frightening man. His shop is long and narrow, as though it might once have been an alleyway but is now walled off. Ambrose gives him the second note. Mr Ollivander reads it. His pale eyebrows shoot up. "I remember when you got yours," Mr Ollivander says to Ambrose. "Rowan and unicorn hair, eleven and three-quarter-inches?" Ambrose nods his agreement. "Is yours still working for you after . . . the change?" Ambrose nods again. "Hmm," says Mr Ollivander. "I rarely give wands so long before Hogwarts, but . . . as the Professor tells us, he may be difficult to fit." And he vanishes into the depths of his shop. "Don't worry," Ambrose whispers to me, "he's not a terrifying as he seems." Abruptly a tape measure is trying to molest me. I ignore it. "And which is your wand arm?" Mr Ollivander's voice floats from the depths of his shop. "Ah . . . either, sir," I call back. "I prefer the left." The tape measures my left arm. Mr Ollivander comes back with an armload of long boxes. Six hours later, I have tried every wand in the shop and every one of them hates me.

Three months later, there is a knock at the front door. I mark my place in _Recent Developments in Magical Horticulture _and go to answer it. There is Mr Ollivander. "Please come in," I say, my heart rising. He enters. "I had to go clear to Lithuania for some of these," he says, and spills an armload of boxes across the battered coffee table. "Some tea or something to drink, Mr Ollivander?" I ask. "Tea would be lovely," he replies. Once he has his tea, he starts handing me more wands. "Ebony and werewolf's hair, Romanian, nine and a half inches, swishy." It feels cold against my hand, and I shake my head and lay it down without trying it. Mr Ollivander is unperturbed. "Dogwood and unicorn hair inlaid with cherry, North American wood, twelve and a sixteenth inches, bouncy." A floorboard splits when I move my wrist. Mr Ollivander repairs it with his own wand. "Mahogany with core of iron, ten and a half inches, rigid." Nothing. "Holly and phoenix feather," says Mr Ollivander, looking, for the first time, _quite_ interested. He leans forward in his chair, but the wand fizzles at the tip and quits. He sighs and leans back. "Next one, boy."

"Willow with a core of mercury, nine and a third inches. Don't ever break this one." Nothing. "Maple burl and mermaid's hair, Scandinavian, twelve and a quarter inches, flexible." Nothing. "Sheoak and dragon heartstring, Australian, twelve inches even." It pops and does nothing else. "Sequoia and and veela's hair, unusually thick, Californian, ten and a quarter inches." Absolutely nothing. This is beginning to worry me deeply. "Moonlight-cured mahogany and Diricawl feather, inlaid with Brazilian tulipwood, Saudi Arabian make, eleven and a third inches, very pliable." _I'm not a wizard. I never will be a wizard. They were all fooled and I'll stay at home reading histories and being bitter until the day I die. _"Silver ash and unicorn hair, magnolia and sandalwood inlay, washed in mercury, dried in moonlight, eleven and a half inches, slightly springy." _Yes_. This is it. Mr Ollivander smiles at the white and silver sparks that stream from the tip of the wand. I smile back, delighted. Mr Ollivander pats my shoulder with cold, spidery fingers and gathers up his wands. "What do I owe you?" I ask, but he brushes me off with, "Dumbledore is taking care of it. Mind you never polish the hilt end too hard, the velvety feel comes from sequoia underbark. If it ever gives you trouble, come back and I'll give it some attention." He walks out the front door. I smile at my wand. The inlay is in a pattern of a flowering vine. It's a beautiful wand. Mr Ollivander never gave me a chance to thank him. I have a wand, a wonderful wand, and I am going to Hogwarts next year. I truly don't think this can get much better.

TBC


	3. Pack: 1971 through 1978

Disclaimer -

_There once was a wonderful book  
With wizards and dragons and gook.  
It belongs to J.K.  
That's why I have to say,  
"This is something I took from her book."_

Specific warnings for this chapter: Mention of sexual acts. Implied child abuse (Sirius). Minor drug use. Hey, they're teenagers. Nothing actually described.

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Chapter Three: 1971-1978

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September 1st, 1971. My wand is in my pocket. I've never been to King's Cross before. Ambrose and Dad are with me. Dad is pushing the trolley with my trunk on it. Judging by the number of people in swimsuits and tweed trousers, much of the crowd is Hogwarts students. I am almost twelve and very aware that all the others here are ten and eleven, but most are no smaller than I. I never realized I was small for my age. There's no one quite my age at home. "See that barrier?" Ambrose asks, pointing. "We're about to walk through it." I pretend I don't think my brother has just gone insane. Oddly enough, I am able to fall right through the barrier – and I fall practically on a boy with glasses and messy black hair. I stammer an apology, but he offers a hand to pull me up. "No harm done," he says. "Are you a first year too?" I nod. "Remus Lupin," I manage. "James Potter," he replies. "Want to sit with me on the train? I'll help you with your trunk." I wonder whether he's offering because I look weedy. Well, he looks rather weedy himself, actually, and only an inch or two taller than I. I agree and each of us takes one side of my trunk.

James and I have said goodbye to our families and we're looking for an empty compartment. James glances in the window of one. "They look our age," says James, indicating. "What do you say?" I shrug. He slides open the door. "Hey, can we sit here?" he asks. The boys in it nod, so we come in, each dragging a trunk by its handle and probably contributing to the general destruction of the carpet. The two boys turn out to be first years indeed. The smaller one (smaller than me, I can't help but note) is blond and a bit round. The other is quite tall, with fine, silky jet-black hair and eyes of an intense deep blue. We talk. When I say I've already made inroads on the textbooks (Dumbledore sent me most of the list early), the smaller boy looks wondering. He has blue eyes too, but his are rather pale. His name is Peter Pettigrew and he seems a bit awed by all of us. It's strange and rather nice to be looked up to.

We're almost at Hogwarts. The black-haired boy hasn't said much. "So," James says in a tone of joyful accusation, "you haven't introduced yourself." The tall boy regards us all for a moment, as though surprised, then shakes himself, looking slightly chagrined, and says, "Black. Sirius. Pleased to meet you." I notice that he's in neatly pressed slacks and a dress shirt, where the rest of us are in jeans and tee-shirts. James looks like the name means something to him, but then goes back to leaning out the window. "Look!" he says suddenly. "There's the station. We'd better change." We rise and get our school robes from the top of the trunk. The other boys show no sign of changing into grey school trousers along with the black robe, so I don't either. I turn my back as I put on the sugar-white shirt, to hide my scarred chest. My back is smooth (hard to reach with my teeth) and should not draw suspicion. I turn again as I slide into the robe and Sirius is muttering something about wearing white in the first place. James and Peter are focused on their own clothing, so I'm the only one who notices a few faint scars on Sirius's back in the split second before he's covered again.

The castle is immense, full of cheery lighted windows. For me, it's like finally arriving at the Pearly Gates. James is threatening to push Peter out of the boat; Peter is giggling nervously. Sirius looks like he feels very much the same as I do.

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15th December, 1972. I hate Potions. All I want for Christmas is to not have Potions anymore. I'm surprisingly good at everything _except_ Potions. And why, why is this most dangerous of classes the one in which Gryffindor second years are paired with Slytherins? They must realize that the two houses group those most likely to _detest_ one another. It's not inter-house rivalry, it's personality conflict. Lots and lots of them. I am cutting a goat's tongue into even sections. James glances over and yecchs. He's paired with Peter. He used to pair with Sirius but Sirius has to save me from my own ineptitude. I cut up nasty and smelly things for both of our pairs because I don't mind blood or mess. Also it's the only thing I'm good at. I push our neatly cubed goat's tongue toward Sirius and start on Peter and James's tongue. "You know," I comment, keeping my eyes on my work, "goat's tongue used to be used in torture. They'd coat your feet in honey or salt or whatever goats like and then let the goats lick you until they sandpapered off your feet." Sirius laughs. He finds the oddest things amusing. "Now, now, this isn't a funny potion, boys!" Slughorn booms genially. "Lupin, let's see you drop in some ingredients, my boy. You've got the head for more than grunt work." He taps my skull with a pudgy knuckle. Sirius rolls his eyes discreetly and switches places with me. He'll shred the holly now. I drop in the cubes of goat's tongue one by one. "Good," Slughorn booms, leaning uncomfortably closer. "Now stir. Good, good. Hurry up with the holly, Black! Come on, now. Why are you using a copper knife?" He can't possibly be that stupid. Sirius sighs heavily. He despises Slughorn, largely, I think, because Slughorn thinks he _has great potential_. "Now, Lupin, without sneaking glances at the board, what color should the potion turn when you add that holly?" I have no idea. I couldn't possibly glance around Professor Slughorn's bulk. I remember dull lavender being mentioned at some point. "Dull lavender?" I guess, and Slughorn beams. "Very good, boy!" I add the holly. I wouldn't call this color "dull," but it is definitely lavender. I begin to feel more confident. Sirius has given me a good start; maybe I won't botch this up. "What ingredient next?" Slughorn insists. "No peeking!" A competent student should be able to figure it out because they would know what the various grasses and toadstools ought to _do_ with the goat's tongue and other nasty things. It should be instinct by now. It isn't. Giving Sirius a forgive-me glance, I select a rot-smelling green-spotted mushroom and drop it in. The potion releases a puff of sparkly pink smoke and rapidly congeals. Slughorn sighs and pats my shoulder heavily. "Better luck next time, boys. You can start chipping that out of your cauldron now, Lupin." I can hear Severus Snape laughing at me. I _hate_ Potions.

"You know," says James that evening as I rummage through my trunk for a book, "we all really like you, Remus." I look up at him, touched. "I like you guys, too," I say. "Yeah," Sirius chimes in, "we really like you. Like, you know, if we found out you were a werewolf or something, we wouldn't care a bit." I stare at them in shock for a moment. James, Sirius, and Peter are all giving me knowing looks. I bury my face in my hands and burst out, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry and I know you hate me now, it's just that I'd never hurt any of you and if you want to tell people just wait till I've gone home, please, I can't handle the idea of the whole school looking at me and _knowing_, I'm sorry . . ." I chance a slightly blurred glance up, and they are looking at me in complete shock. What, did they expect me to deny it? Sirius kneels down next to me and says gently, "You haven't been listening to a word we're saying, you nitwit." I look at him and suddenly it penetrates. "You don't?" I whisper incredulously. "You really don't care?" Sirius slings a friendly arm around my shoulders. "Yeah," he says casually, "we've been kicking it around and we've decided to keep you on. You might be taking a pay cut, though." I look around, wanting to hug them all, and I think, _No one ever told me it was this wonderful to have friends. I'll never undervalue these three. Never again_.

* * *

January 30th, 1973. I have a midterm exam tomorrow morning. I'm trying to remember the name of the treaty that stopped the Goblin War of 1783 and started the Troll and Goblin War of 1784. I quickly grow distracted from my studies by Sirius and James on my left, and, at the next table, close enough to reach out and touch, Kira Adelais. She's almost in profile. Her hair – a rich, dark auburn – is a heavy cloud around her shoulders. She's sublimely gorgeous, six months younger than me and two and a half inches taller than me. I give up on the treaty and just watch Kira out of the corner of my eye. It can't possibly hurt to dream, can it?

An hour later, Sirius, James and Peter have gone elsewhere, leaving me bent over my notes in disturbingly close proximity to Miss Adelais. I have not found the name of the goblin treaty, though I have found a lot of other facts I didn't realize I took notes on. Tests like me, and tend to display things I actually have studied. Or maybe my teachers like me, or feel sorry for me, or some combination of the two, and can guess what I will study so they write their tests to that area. Or maybe I'm just having a long run of good luck. Kira stretches in her chair, yawns. The common room is less crowded now. I could move away, give her some breathing space. Or I could go and sit with her. _No, I couldn't! _I tell myself, scandalized. _I couldn't possibly! Girls are not for me! Werewolves do not get pretty girls to date! Especially not pretty girls who are two inches taller! And_ I _am_ not _knocked silly by girls this way! _I look up, and Kira has moved. She is rising, gathering her notes into a neat little pile with long-fingered, graceful hands. She turns. She looks at me, she asks me, "Do you remember the name of that treaty in between the 1783 war and the 1784 war?" I look at her in startlement for a moment, then I laugh out loud. "I have no idea," I tell her. "I was just thinking of asking you." And then I ask, naturally as breathing, "Would you quiz me, maybe?" And . . . she sits down across from me and says, "Sure. Um . . . what year was Eldric Waterford elected Minister?"

"Moony looks happy," Sirius says, voice accusing. I look up from my book and smile. "Why does Moony look happy?" Sirius inquires. I smile a little wider, and finally, as Sirius begins to fidget with impatience, I reply. "Mr. Moony looks happy because, while Mr. Padfoot has not yet won the favors of Miss Morningstar Mockridge of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Prongs has not yet won the glance of Miss Lily Evans of Gryffindor, Mr. Moony spent three hours yesterday studying History of Magic with Miss Kira Adelais." Sirius stares at me, and then, eyes sparkling, he announces: "Moony, old mate, this must be celebrated."

* * *

April, 1974. I hurt. Everything hurts. _Everything_. Hurts. I'll tell everyone I missed the train back from Easter break because my bag split and I dropped my books all over the train station. That they'll believe. They'll all figure they just missed me on the train at the beginning of break (which I wasn't on). I look up and over at Sirius. The white, sterile hospital-wing sheets swirl around him like clouds in a Modernist painting. He claims to have gotten into a fight on the train home. He's fast asleep, his eyelashes flat to his cheekbones. Madam Pomfrey pushes back the white curtain which she's erected around both of us. At first, we each had our own, but then Sirius came over in the middle of last night, while I was still bleeding and couldn't sleep, and crawled in bed with me. She purses her lips as she looks at Sirius. "Has he said anything?" she asks me in a low, conspiratorial whisper. I regretfully shake my head. "Not a thing," I mouth back. She sighs inaudibly, rests a caring hand on my forehead for a moment. Though her face is not yet lined, her hands are. She asks if I need anything and I tell her no, I'm fine, thank you, Madam Pomfrey. She glances again at Sirius and slides out. What happened to Sirius is worse, I want to tell her. Give your caring to him, because I have someone to care for me. What happened to me, just happened. Someone _did_ these things to him.

The ninth of May, Sirius is torturing his brother. Regulus is trying to study, just as I am in the next aisle of books. Madam Pince rarely if ever comes to the back of the library, because students seldom if ever do. Except me. And apparently Regulus, too. By the sound of it, Sirius has Regulus's book and is trying to convince him to fight for it. Against my better instincts, I push _On Magical Entomology _and _A Study of the Unicorn Flea _to the other end of their shelf, so I can look through the bookshelves and watch. Sirius is holding Regulus's book above his head. Regulus dares not tackle his older brother because it would knock over a bookshelf and earn him detention for the rest of the year. Apparently, Regulus is reading _Gone With the Wind_, not studying. Sirius flips through it, still keeping a wary eye on his brother. "Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, I shall swear at radishes and pull my bodice down," Sirius says in a high, flirty voice. "Didn't think it of you, Reggie." Regulus says threateningly, "Give me my book back, traitor." Sirius throws his head back and laughs. "I suppose," he says in a dangerously friendly voice, "you identify with Scarlett and Rhett? The misunderstood aristocracy?" Regulus straightens, eyes afire. He and Sirius look very much alike for a moment. "I suppose," Regulus says in the same tone, "that you identify with Belle Watling?" Sirius is caught off guard, then he snarls and flings the book into Regulus's midriff. A short, sharp cough escapes Regulus and Sirius is striding away, clearly in a fine rage. Regulus straightens slowly and looks around, suddenly looking young, lost. I don't waste my sympathy on Regulus. My responsibility is Sirius.

* * *

June 30th, 1975. It seems that since I'm a friend of Kira's, I'm a friend of every female in the Gryffindor fifth year. I'm standing in a group of them, chatting with Kira and Lily Evans. James's face is a study in envy. The train whistles and Sirius yells, "Come on, Remus, if we want good seats!" I wave a hand at him and look back to the girls. "Well," I say, "have a great summer, all." They say it back. I look at Kira. The chances of seeing her on the train are fairly remote. If I'm to ask if I can write her over the summer, I have to ask now. I have to ask – right – now. I smile at her. "Good-bye, Kira," I say. "Good-bye, Remus," she says, and we both blush a little. "I'll see you next year," I tell her, and turn to go. "Remus –" she says, stopping me, and I turn back and suddenly she kisses me, a little peck on the lips. She pulls back and I grin like an idiot, and she smiles too. "I'll see you," she says, and runs off after the other girls. I raise my hand to my lips and feel my smile, reminding myself at the same time that werewolves don't get girls. And if I had the chance . . . I'd have to say no. Of course, telling her might do it. But then I'd be thrown out of school, because if one girl knows something all the girls know something. I wonder if it's worth it.

I say good-bye to the train with a measure of regret. Train rides are the times when I'm with James and Sirius and Peter, and yet, there are almost no distractions between us. I've had a lot of memorable experiences on trains. Peter is going to France with his parents, and though we haven't told Peter so he won't feel left out because he has to leave, Sirius and James are spending the first three weeks with me. Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew come to collect their offspring, but I'm not sure how long it will be before my dad comes to collect his offspring. Dad has no clue how long it takes to hire a cab, and he might be late. I look around to watch the other parents and children. Severus Snape looks perfectly miserable. It's sort of sad. Lily is walking over to meet her parents, who are Muggles by the look of them, and have a blonde girl of about ten with them. Kira is going out the barrier. Kearney Shacklebolt and her older brother Kingsley are meeting their mother. Regulus Black is walking, shoulders a tense posture-perfect line, toward the people I recognize as Sirius's mother and father. I look over at Sirius, knowing he'll be wounded yet again by his parents' failure to notice him, but he's looking the other way. "Hey," he says, "is that who we belong to?" I look, and sure enough, Dad and Ambrose are weaving their way through the station. I wave. "How could you tell?" I ask Sirius, and he says in faint surprise, "Well, that must be Ambrose, he looks like you." I hadn't realized that Ambrose and I resemble one another but I suppose I see what he means. We meet. Ambrose is giving Sirius the "I want to paint _that_" look and I've gotten the look enough that I can see another masterpiece forming.

That night, James wakes me at about one and we creep downstairs so as not to wake Dad and Ambrose. Not that they'd mind, there are no serial killers here, and they trust me, but it would be rude to wake them up. We slide out the front door and into a green field. "Can anyone see us?" James whispers. "No," I tell him, "the nearest neighbors are the Whittakers, and they're over the hill." They share a glance. "No late-night walkers? Tramps? Drunkards?" Sirius suggests. "You _are_ a tramp and a drunkard," I tell him, "and the town proper is two miles from here." James grins. "Great," he says, and suddenly James is no longer before me. The great, shaggy beast raises his head proudly and slowly shakes a great rack of antlers against the stars. His powerful shoulder is nearly a foot higher than mine. He stamps his hind foot and swings his great head to look at me reproachfully with hazel eyes that are suddenly much larger. I have stepped back a little and I come forward again and lay my hand on the shaggy deep-brown fur at his withers. The significance of what he has done does not escape me. "You did this for me?" I ask. James bobs his head in answer. "Sweet God," I say, and it's almost a prayer of thanks more than an exclamation. "Jamie, you could have gotten yourself killed." Suddenly there's a new presence and I jump. Sirius – of course it's Sirius – is leaping about my legs. He bowls me over in his enthusiasm and washes my face. "That is disgusting," I tell him, and he jumps up and down until I start scratching his ears. I look up at James and down at Sirius and I burst out laughing. "This is brilliant," I say. "I'd never have let you do it if I'd known." There's a small noise like the creaking of muscle and James is next to me again. There's a certain staglike dignity and latent strength about him and I wonder how I've never seen it before. "Of course," says James. "We knew you would, so we didn't tell you. Peter's working on it too." I bury my face in my hands. "And you knew," I say. "You didn't make up the nicknames randomly, you knew what you'd be. Peter's a mouse, isn't he?" Sirius transforms too, still half-lying across my lap. "A rat," he says. "And of course we didn't make them up randomly. Remember the Animagus-revelation potion?" I look at him. "No," I say. James laughs and sits down next to us. "We were counting on that," he says.

* * *

October 9th, 1976. Walking back to the dormitory after class, I happen to glance down a side corridor and I see an adult man with pale blonde hair leaning with one arm against the wall. In front of him, too close, face turned away from me, is a student. I pause. I know I'm probably up for prefect next year and what this resembles is illegal, very illegal. Then I see that it's Sirius. He looks up and says something softly. The man in front of him must be his older cousin-by-marriage, Lucius Malfoy, who's new this year to the board of governors. I keep walking as quietly as I can, wondering furiously about Sirius. Sirius who has dated close to every girl in our year and some in the years above and below. I marshal myself to accept it and decide not to talk to James. There's no real reason. It's not until that night when I hear Sirius crying softly that I remember last year and what Regulus said to him that angered him so. I want to go to Sirius but he would hate to know that I had seen. Either possibility would shame him if he's tried to keep it a secret. So I stay where I am. Sirius cries only a little longer. He would hate me if he knew I knew. I say nothing. 

November 2nd. Professor McGonagall is reading my essay aloud to the class. I'm squirming in my seat, both in pleasure and embarrassment. James and Sirius are laughing at me. Professor McGonagall finishes and lowers my essay. "This," she says, "goes above and beyond what I asked for. It draws a neat and accurate conclusion from the presentation of evidence, both that I gave in class and that from outside knowledge." She comes to my desk and lays down the essay. Across the top, she has written, _Keep this up and Dumbledore will be hiring you as my replacement next year. Superb work_. I smile, and she smiles her thin-lipped McGonagall smile back at me. I guess she must have forgiven me for that incident with the lobsters and the suit of armor.

December 30th. I awaken on the floor again, but no one is with me. "James?" I call hoarsely. "Guys? Where are you?" I remain alone. The splintery floor rasps against my skin as I try to move, but an intense pain stops me. When I painfully move my neck, I see that the floor around me is soaked with blood. I pass a hand over my stomach and feel the tears left by my claws. There's another set of odd, dark bruises on my chest. I squint at them. They're stretched, warped, but they're in the shape of great cloven hooves. I try to sit up and fall back with a little moan. A tenderness on my face is probably another hoof-bruise. This one will not be recognizable, though, because it must have been on the muzzle to begin with. Where are my friends? And then I remember the confused scent-picture of last night. The three familiar ones, and then a foreign one which I only recognized after I saw him, the one who mocks me weekly in our double Potions, the one who could only have found me if someone helped him. And James – James. Damn. The hoof bruises will be a dead giveaway if Pomfrey puts two and two together. I close my eyes and steel myself, then slam my fist into the clearest bruise. If that one isn't clear, no one will be able to tell with the rest. It was Sirius. Sirius. It must have been Sirius. I lie where I am and wait for Pomfrey. Why? A bribe wouldn't work. A threat? Blackmail? A horrible cough and the taste of blood ends my bitter thoughts and I close my eyes and drift again.

* * *

It is June 12th, 1977. I am seventeen. It is eleven o'clock the first Saturday of my summer vacation. The full moon was Thursday and I am mostly recovered. Nonetheless, I am sitting in my room in my pajamas, in the center of the rug where the sun shines. Ambrose is playing swing music dowstairs. I'm reflecting on the capital unfairness of the fact that I will be eighteen a few days into my seventh year, and wondering how long it would actually take to grow a Whomping Willow if I started it at the correct season. A neighbor calls a hello to my father, who is planting cabbages in the front garden; my father calls back; the neighbor says something that has my name in it. The neighbors know about me and Ambrose. They're Muggles and they don't know what's wrong, exactly, but this is a tiny, backwards village which hasn't been interested in the outside world since Lloyd George was Prime Minister, and they've heard of the loup-garou, so some of them have their theories. Ambrose and I can enter the church, so they figure we're all right.

Half-past five that evening, I go to Mass, cross myself with the holy water, kneel in my accustomed pew. Mrs Whittaker does not show any hesitation in taking my scarred and bandaged hand for the Our Father, but gives me an encouraging smile. After Mass I go to the confessional. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." I run through the year quickly, starting with the Ten Commandments – "I have maintained a relationship with a girl who was already engaged. I have envied my friends their qualities. I have taken the Lord's name in vain." The priest listens gravely. "I have remained silent when I saw cruelty that I probably could have stopped." If he only knew that I meant I had let my friends turn their wands on a fellow student, what would he say? When I tell him, "I haven't been to Mass since the spring holiday," he laughs a little and tells me I had extenuating circumstances. He says this every year. He makes no sound when I confess to unspecified sexual sins, but I feel the unpleasant surprise through the screen. "Nineteen occasions," I add, so he can calculate the penance. It is a large one, of course. I pull the beads and crucifix from my pocket and begin to chant my rosaries on the way home.

Over the two miles of dirt road, counting off my penance by touch, I consider: How many almost-eighteen-year-old boys would understand this? How many have experienced pain so long they've learned to accept it as just another chemical message, experienced sex and found it mildly anticlimactic, read their way through entire shelves of an immense library just so they'll have enough background to be employable? How many have watched their friend try so hard to hide his pain, tried so hard to hide their own secrets? There are two sins I have never confessed. One, that I only go through the motions of Catholicism as a sort of meditation, or perhaps to appease a higher power which is clearly quite brassed off at me. Two, that I have represented so many lies to so many people that I doubt even Legilimency could untangle my lies from the truth.

* * *

1978. Monday, January the nineteenth. Early afternoon. NEWT-level Herbology. My tank of Gillyweed looks extremely murky. Professor Sprout is giving us all the evil eye, particularly, it seems, me and Sirius. Sirius and me, actually, to place it in grammatically proper order as well as order of intensity. "The reason this is only taught to my advanced class," she is telling us loudly, not nearly as merry as usual, "is because Gillyweed, though it has no physically addictive properties, is a dangerous psuedo-narcotic when used improperly. I can trust my NEWT students not to steal any." The look she shoots at Sirius denies her words. She has no trust. Since James is partnering Lily, he is exempt from The Glare. "They get an instruction manual on The Glare the summer before they start teaching, you know," I inform Sirius. He ignores me totally; he is eying Professor Sprout, waiting for something to occupy her so he can dip out a handful of Gillyweed and drop it in his pocket. James is complaining. "Gillyweed doesn't _do_ anything," he tells Lily. "Whatever became of mandrakes?" Sirius laughs at that comment and sneaks another look at Professor Sprout. "I will not smoke that with you," I inform Sirius. His eyes gleam. "Oh, so that's how you take it?" he asks wickedly, and I sigh deeply. "Of course, you idiot," I tell him, "if you take it orally you have to go shove your head in the sink for an hour." He snickers at the puns possible for that sentence and I let out another long-suffering sigh.

The dorm is filled with almost odorless, slightly abrasive smoke. I breathe in and feel the not-entirely unpleasant rasp against the lining of my throat. I'm floating a little from the slipstream, and I've been staring at the same page of my Charms text for the last thirty minutes. My roommates must have finished their gillyweed an hour ago. I would have stopped it, and James would have refused, but it's non-addictive and besides, they'll never manage to pry any more out of the professors. It's never sold to minors, either. Sirius is at my bedside now. "Can I join?" I move over to make room for him, and he clambers between the sheets. I can smell the faint murk of gillyweed on his hair. I keep my eyes on my Charms text, even though I can hear Professor McGonagall's decisive footsteps on the stairs, and I don't say a word until she opens the door.

June. The moon is full and beyond that who cares? Sirius is beside me – Sirius is one of the few words I know, a powerful word that has a scent and a bark and a feel of fur with it. He yips 'Sirius!' at the moon. Skittering before me and rustling the leaves is Wormtail who is just a scent and a glimpse of scaly tail but I will not be the same werewolf without that scent among the leaves. Behind us is Jamie a great warm beast a Druid god a lacy antler-shadow against the coolly smiling silvermoon. Jamie is a word I still know, not James but Jamie and another word I know is end which is what this is. This is the end, end, end and I will never again run through this forest with this rat and this almost-wolf and this great stag under this moon. Never again, so let it go on. I fear the pain of moonset and the burn of the sun but more I fear the loss of these companions. From now on I will be caged and that is not a word I know but it exists in me, it is cold iron and hot silver and the moon smiling distantly through a ridiculous window and the shadow of bars cutting her light and the snarls and the splinters in the wood and the creaking of the Shack which is another word I do not know but I know it means cage. This is the end, end, end. I howl 'end' to the moon but she smiles alone and does not care. Sirius tries to howl with me but he can't quite do it so I gnaw on his ear a little until he springs stiff-legged and we roll down a little hill snapping in play. I scent the blood from a place where I clawed him but Sirius does not care and I will care in the morning but I do not care now because we are playing. I play instead of hurting and run instead of hurting and howl instead of screaming but this is the end, end, end, and the next time the moon smiles on me I will be alone in a cage. So make it good this time make it last make it never end if I can but make it good.

* * *

TBC 


End file.
